


Kia

by Siriex, vitriol



Series: FSF SCP Foundation AU [3]
Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Gen, narita won't give us the mesala content we want so we'll make it on our own, other characters to be added - Freeform, scp foundation au, yes this is a part two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriex/pseuds/Siriex, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitriol/pseuds/vitriol
Summary: The pieces on the chessboard have begun to move.Who will bend first? You? Or me?Either way, the world will continue to turn.
Series: FSF SCP Foundation AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612933
Kudos: 4





	Kia

If anyone were to ask 9664 how long they have been separated from Jack, they would say that it has been 794.3 hours since they had last spoken with them.

It wasn’t as if they had been counting from day one. In fact, they are not sure whether it was them or Flat who had started it, but the numbers tick up in their mind, adding digits when necessary. 

They had been separated for longer in the very recent past, but back then Jack had been imprisoned in the same building and 9664 could have broken containment for a visit any time they wanted. Now Jack is Watcher-knows-where, risking life and limb to fix something that was never their fault. 

That was the problem: Watcher. The day before Jack’s departure, Sigma promised that he would help them remain in touch with Jack. It was and still is a tempting offer, if not for the fact that any message to Sigma will have to go through Watcher. 

They cannot imagine anything less appealing, but it is becoming more-so with every counted second. They can already see that stupid, pitiful smile on Watcher’s face--what form they take does not matter--looking down on them like they are a child that needs to be consoled. As if they aren’t powerful themself! As if they cannot bend the universe to their will with a snap of their fingers! 

_ Okay, then why won’t you? _

Flat’s voice is clear in their head, his tone light and teasing. Though he does not show his physical form, 9664 can  _ see _ his expression, with arms crossed and an eyebrow raised in a curiosity that they can only recognize as one of  _ Flat’s _ emotions--and only Flat’s. 

They don’t respond. They know that, if they do, it’ll open the floodgates for more of Flat’s pointless questions. 

But Flat is not one to give up either. 9664 can see it behind their eyelids, the way that he places his hands on his hips, unhappy with being ignored. 

_ I know you can do it! Could it be that you’re shy? _

And what does  _ that _ even mean? 9664 refuses to respond to Flat’s questions, but even they can’t help but feel as if he is making fun of them somehow. To think that he would consider them as someone capable of emotions as foolish as  _ shyness _ . As an extension of the universe, they are beyond human things such as those. They  _ have _ to be. 

_ Are you? _

Are they?

“Of course I am.” 

_ Right. _

Flat says it with all the confidence of someone who is very much  _ in their head. _ 9664 wants to hate it, but they can’t. They are the one that put him there. 

_ It’s not my fault. _

9664 does not remember making him so smug. It must be a personality trait that Flat picked up after he’d taken on a life of his own. There’s a flash of...irritation in their expression, eyes as dark as the universe glaring at the white wall—as if it is going to give them an alternative to having to ask  _ Watcher _ . 

The wall stares back. In the corner, they can see the red light of the camera blinking away; sole proof that someone  _ is _ watching them. Watcher does not need cameras. They raise their arm in a lazy wave and gesture to the floor. 

\--

All told, it takes Waver Velvet thirty minutes to enter 9664’s cell. Twenty of those minutes, he explains, were spent walking back from lunch in the cafeteria, only to find a clip of his charge looping on his computer monitor. 

His hair is pinched back in the messy ponytail he’d used to keep it out of his soup, and he looks like he has not slept more than three hours. 9664 suspects that it was less. They jump to their feet when he enters the room, and have to school their face to avoid a smile. 

“What do you want?” 

9664’s words dry up before they can reply. They decide to compensate with a glare. 

Waver clicks his tongue. He cuts through the room with the same knife he uses to cut through their bullshit, and finds a seat on the bed they’d just abandoned. “If Flat was the one calling me, I‘d have no idea what he wanted, but you’re a different story. There are only two reasons you would call me over here. Flat seems fine, so it must be Jack.” his gaze goes stern. “Sit.” 

9664 grits their teeth and sits. They hate Waver and the way that he makes them feel like a helpless child, and that feeling leaves them wallowing in their own silence. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Waver is not the type to tolerate stalling for long. 

“If you’re worried about them, you might as well say it outright.” 

“Flat’s worried.” 

“If Flat was the one that was worried, he would have asked.” Waver sighs and presses his fingertips between his eyebrows. “I have no way of contacting them. If you want to know if Jack is safe, you need to speak to Watcher. Do you want me to tell them you’re requesting a meeting?” 

Their ‘no’ comes out a little too fast. 

“Then you can just keep sitting here and wondering. I don’t know shit.” He stands and gestures to the camera for the door. 

9664 is familiar with the mechanisms clicking into place by now. They can use each tick to count down the number of seconds until Waver is free to leave. 

“Fine.” 

Waver’s face holds some emotion they have never seen in their life. It often does, so they ignore it. “I’ll get back to you when I hear from them. I suggest you enjoy whatever peace you can before your meeting.” 

He leaves and 9664 allows themself to collapse back against the bed because Waver is right. Waver is  _ often  _ right. It bothers them to no end, but not nearly as much as Watcher. 

  
  


\--

Sigma has only just reached their motel room when the screaming colors hit. It is not the sort of thing that humans were ever intended to become accustomed to, but he no longer loses his balance when it happens. Still, experience has been a harsh mistress, and he rests his weight against the wall. 

The blue of Svin’s eyes flash curiosity in the corner of his vision. He shakes his head and points up. It is all he can do before the dim entrance is replaced with a fisheye view of Watcher’s office. Like this, Watcher’s voice never settles into any of the ones they’d used in person. It does not settle into anything at all. It took some time for Sigma to become accustomed to what has to be a blend of every voice every living humanoid has ever had, but a month’s experience has made him fluent. 

“ _ Hello Sigma. It’s been a while.”  _

Sigma closes his eyes, but his vision holds. “Nothing to report. Progress is slow but steady.” 

“ _ I see.” _

The scene before him rotates until the center of his focus is on the dirty window set into the wall of Watcher’s office. 

“Did you have additional information?” Sigma kicks off his boots in the entryway, and presses his palm against the wall. He follows it around the corner to the nearest bed and strips off his jacket. “Or additional orders?” The muffled sound of Svin’s curiosity is a momentary distraction. He holds his hand out in what he presumes is his direction to silence him. 

_ “No. It seems like 9664 has taken you up on your offer. They’re asking about Jack.”  _

Watcher would know that Jack is as physically fit as ever, but they have no way of assessing their mental fitness. Sigma is no expert, but they are present, and that is better than nothing. Jack shares their lodging with Gray in a Foundation-owned house several miles away. It has been thirty-six hours since their last check-in. He follows the wall to the end table and feels around for a piece of paper. He unfolds it and holds it in front of his eyes. “They sent this message.” He cannot see it, but Watcher hums. 

_ “That’s very thoughtful of them.”  _

“I can speak to them tonight.” 

_ “Around six?” _

“Understood.” 

\---

“You managed to write down all that information, right, Will?” 

Miles away from Watcher and Sigma’s conversation, Faldeus’ quick footsteps echo in the cold, unfeeling hallways of the Chaos Insurgency site. 

And behind them, another set are trying their hardest to keep up the pace. “Yes, sir. Part of me thought that this meeting would go on forever, really...” The voice belongs to a young man, with brown hair and green eyes that were wide and full of an innocence that Faldeus cannot help but find unfitting for the job that the agent carries. 

But he supposes that a couple missions will be more than enough to set him straight...if he even manages to live that long. “That’s how it is with those in the higher ranks,” Faldeus comments with a roll of his eyes, “They’ll tear your plans apart ten times over before you can move a damn finger.”

Behind him, Will shuffles through pages in a notebook, his eyes shifting through the scribbled information with a hum. “And yet you managed to get them on your side so quickly, Agent Dioland...it was impressive.” 

“Flattery can only take you so far, Agent.” Faldeus comments, huffing through his nose as he feels a headache quickly forming. If only he could shake off this damn greenhorn agent-- why does  _ he _ have to be the one stuck with him?! “If you’re done, then hand me your notes. I have to prepare a formal request to take up to the Delta Command.” 

The way that the Agent’s eyes sparkle with interest at the drop of the title is almost comical. The awe in his voice “The Delta Command… have you actually spoken with them, Agent Dioland?” 

What a stupid question. Of  _ course _ he has spoken with the Delta Command. It is an opportunity of a lifetime, one that others of his ranking, and even some in the Gamma-class would no doubt  _ die _ for. 

But it is not them that had been cursed with the blessing of having the Command’s trust.  _ He _ has information that can make or break this organization, and it is  _ him _ that was placed in charge of this important mission. And why  _ wouldn’t _ he be in charge? After all, there is no one in the Insurgency more loyal to the cause than him. 

In comparison, this Alpha-class agent is a mere piece. Something that can be replaced at a moment’s notice.

With a sneer, Faldeus responds. “Of course. But what occurs there is beyond anything that you could comprehend. Really, you should know your place a little better.” 

Will laughs sheepishly, green eyes glancing away. “That’s true… but we’ve been hearing rumors, sir. It seems that someone heard the name of one of the members of the Delta Command. Was it… Misela… or Manuela…wait, no, it was Mesala?” 

Faldeus’ steps stop. For the first time, he turns around to face this naive agent, his gaze stony. “This is my warning to you, Agent Harrison. If you keep your head in the clouds and listen to such ridiculous rumors, you will be a liability to our cause. And we here in Chaos Insurgency have  _ no qualms over eliminating any liability. _ ” 

The silence that follows is tense. For the first time, Faldeus sees Agent William Harrison’s eyes grow wide with nervousness, and he is, for the first time since he has worked under his squad, speechless. 

In the corner of Faldeus’ mind, he wonders if he was too harsh with the young agent. But this is the same warning that he himself had received from his father as a young Agent, and it is the same one that he gives all of his subordinates. One will not thrive in this environment if they are not cunning. They will never survive if they are not  _ smart. _

And Faldeus prides himself on having both qualities down to an art form. 

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Will opens his mouth, trying to thread words together. “I--”

Faldeus has had enough, however. He rips the papers off from the Agent’s hands, his gaze still narrowed. “Understood, Agent?” 

This time, Will does not say anything. He simply nods, and that’s exactly the response that Faldeus wants. His lips turn upwards in a smirk, and he walks away from the shaken agent feeling rather pleased with himself.  _ No doubt that this will be a good lesson for him, _ he thinks to himself. 

The further he walks away from Agent Will and into his room, however, he can’t help but pay attention to a small, nagging thought in the back of his head. _ But how did the Alpha-class manage to get Mesala’s name?  _

\---

As Agent Will watches Faldeus Dioland walk away, they slowly feel the tension in the hallway evaporate from their shoulders. They first turn away, walking in the direction opposite of his superior’s, in hopes for a respite. 

But when Faldeus’ steps are finally out of earshot, Will’s expression changes. The shocked, deer-in-the-headlights expression turns irritated, and they shake their head as they look down at their wrist watch--it’s almost six p.m. 

“What a fucking prick,” they mumble to themselves, opening the room to their dorm. Aside from a desk and a bed with a too-thin mattress, the walls are lined with posters of movies and comic book characters that they can scarcely recognize. 

It is Flat that is the movie buff, after all. Not Jack. 

How long has it been since they started wearing this face? Poor William Harrison, whose naivete had made him such an easy target for Jack. They had only needed to mimic Faldeus in order to lure him over-- and no amount of tactical gear or training was enough to stop a demon’s arms from twisting his neck until it snapped. 

Those memories on the surface and the aspects of his personality that they were able to copy are enough to tell Jack that Agent Will had not been a bad person. In fact, Faldeus had been right-- he was innocent and impressionable. Someone who genuinely believed that he could change the world through this organization. 

He was right in a way. His trust and naivete may have ended his life, but if Jack succeeds it will save millions more. Fortunately they are not alone. 

They sink into the chair in front of the desk, and its uneven legs tip to and fro while they settle their weight. The desk is littered with pens and post-it notes intended to help the late Will keep track of his many, many duties. Jack pulls over a stack and makes another quick note to join the pile. Will was social, and had one of the other recruits over to watch movies on his shitty laptop every Thursday. There is a risk he’d notice if the spread wasn’t at least a few square inches wider than before. 

Task complete, they look at their watch. Six-o’-clock. 

Jack closes their eyes, and many miles away, another Jack opens theirs. 

\--

At the sound of a key in the lock, Gray tucks a bookmark between the pages of her novel and reaches for the little cage she keeps at her side. A quick glance at the clock in the kitchen shows that it is just after 6 in the afternoon. Sigma had called ahead, but Dr. Velvet made it very clear that such calls could be faked. 

The setting sun cascades in through the back door of their little house before Sigma slips through the door on silent boots. “Jack?” 

Gray pinches the corner of her bookmark, rolling the battered paper back and forth between her fingertips. “Upstairs.” 

“Thanks.” He stops on the stairs and looks over his shoulder. Gray meets his eyes for a moment and looks back at her book. She slides a nail between the pages to pry it back open, when Sigma’s voice interrupts again. “Jack is meeting with 9664 and Watcher. Dr. Velvet may be there too.” 

Gray nods and sets her book aside. Her nerves are still buzzing and she doubts she could read another page. 

Jack greets them with a smile that could not look any more forced. Though they are living in the same space, Gray has not seen Jack many times. They spend most of the day in their room resting to compensate for the strain of maintaining two bodies. This strain seems a little different than usual. 

Sigma steps to the side to allow Gray into the room and leans against the wall. Jack waves in greeting. Their movements are slow, like a toy that is running on its last leg of battery, but they push through; all of them do.

In this room, there is also a laptop. This one does not belong to William Harrison, but instead belongs to the Foundation. Jack opens the laptop, signing onto the encrypted network for the organization and then clicking into the teams application that they had agreed to use for their weekly meetings. 

Instantly, the light of the webcam begins blinking and on the screen the faces of 9664 and Waver Velvet appear. Neither looks any different than normal. The circles under Dr. Velvet’s eyes have not deepened, much to Gray’s relief, and 9664’s expression is as inscrutable as ever. 

Sigma offers the screen a quick nod before marching out of the room, leaving Gray and Jack alone with the laptop. This conversation is not for Gray. If it was, Sigma would have stayed as well. Still, she allows herself a little selfishness in the shape of a wave to Dr. Velvet. He acknowledges her with a sharp tilt of his chin. 

She catches herself smiling on her way out. 

A few seconds pass after the door shuts before Waver clears his throat. “You wanted to talk to Jack?” 

9664’s nose wrinkles the way Flat’s does when he’s greeted with a particularly unappealing meal, but Jack has known them long enough not to take it personally. 

“Is something wrong?” 

The wrinkles of displeasure carve further into 9664’s face. The subsequent silence is interrupted only by the ever-increasing sound of Waver’s irritation. Eventually 9664 caves. “Have you gotten any closer to Mesala?” 

“I’m still gathering information for now. I need to understand the structure of the organization a little more before I can replace someone that’s closer to them. I’m still in the bottom ranks for now.” Even though ‘Will’ is sitting still in his chair, the effort of keeping him solid is dragging Jack down. Their eyelids are drooping, threatening to close under the weight of it. “Some of the higher-ups at the Insurgency are even more irritating than I’d expected, but I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

9664’s expression does not change, but Waver snorts. Hit the nail on the head.

“How about you and Flat? And,” they offer Waver an apologetic smile. “Dr. Velvet?” 

“Fine,” 9664 snaps. Given how many servers they’re pinging through, it is no surprise that they’ve sacrificed resolution for security. There is a faint red tint to every pixel that makes it impossible to tell whether the dark on their cheeks is a belligerent blush or a trick of the light. They don’t want Jack to know they’re relieved. It’s amazing how someone so reluctant to share their emotions is easier to read than their expressive counterpart.

“Is he awake?” Jack asks. They only half-notice as Waver shrinks in the screen, moving further from the camera until he is almost out of view.

A flash of blue, accompanied by a cheerful hello, answers that question. Flat is awake, but he is gone as soon as he arrives. 

“Can I talk to him?” Jack tries again. 

“Is he the only one you want to talk to?” 9664 mumbles, and Jack could almost  _ swear _ that they are pouting. Jealousy is not an emotion that Jack is too experienced with, but they could easily see it in their eyes, even through the low resolution video. 

It’s a reaction that is so  _ human _ , that it makes Jack laugh. The differences between 9664 and Flat only continue to pile up, and they can’t help but to feel impressed in a way that they can’t really understand. “It sounds like you don’t have much to say anyways.” Jack says with a shrug, trying to hold back a rare, cheeky smile. “And I have to conserve my energy. So I  _ would _ like to talk to Flat, 9664.” 

There’s a long pause. For a moment, Jack is certain that internet connection has been cut and that the video will end without being able to give Flat so much as a ‘Hello’, but it’s 9664’s sigh that proves otherwise. 

“Fine,” they snap again, dark eyes facing away from the camera. “But…” 

“But?” 

Their gaze flickers back to the screen, and Jack realizes that they look lost. Uncertain. “Stop calling me that. That’s not my name anymore.” 

From the way that Dr. Velvet looks up and turns towards 9664 in the background, Jack knows that what they’re saying is new to the both of them. The first time they had spoken to them, they had insisted that ‘9664’ was a good enough name for them, and that ‘Flat’ now belonged to their more human counterpart. 

Out of all the things that have changed in Jack and Flat’s life, they never imagined that the incomprehensible thing inside him would change as well. 

Jack decides to humor them. “Who gave you a name,” they ask. “Flat?”

9664 nods. In the background, they think they see Dr. Velvet raising an eyebrow.

“What name did he give you?” 

Silence. 9664’s expression can’t be described in any way other than ‘uncertain’ and, for a moment, Jack’s certain that they’ll cut the call short right then and there-- 9664 did not seem like someone (something?) that enjoyed being put into a vulnerable position. 

But, to Jack’s surprise, they answer. 

“Kia.” 

Jack tilts their head. Exhaustion is getting to them, and they cannot even  _ begin _ to understand where Flat had gotten that name from. “Like the cars?” 

“Kia” raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?” 

“Flat and I used to play games while we were...travelling,” Jack explains, unsure of how to react to any of this. “We would try to call out when we saw a certain type of car. Toyotas, Volkswagen, you know…” The more that they say, the more confused that Kia looks. Though they feel a bit sorry, they think that it’s refreshing to see them be so openly emotional. “Sometimes, the cars we would be looking for would be Kia ones. They’re not that popular.” 

Even through the low quality video, Jack can tell how Kia’s cheeks progressively turn redder and redder with the revelation, until they finally blurt out, “He did not name me after a car!” 

Jack scoffs. “If you think that Flat would  _ not _ name you after a car, then you don’t know him at all.” 

They cannot hear Flat’s interjection, but they know it happens from the way Kia’s face twists into stark betrayal. The pixels on the right side of the screen dissolve into blocks of color indicative of a rendering error. They press their palm against their mouth to muffle their laughter. 

“Hello, Flat.”

“Hi, Jack!” his voice is distorted, but just barely comprehensible. Jack is relieved to hear it regardless. They surrender to gravity just long enough to lean a little closer to the screen. “I can’t believe you named one of the most powerful beings in the known universe after a  _ car. _ ” 

“It just felt right!” Flat yells over the sound of Kia’s indignant shouting. “I think it really suits you!” 

“It’s a  _ car, _ ” Kia snaps. “A  _ car _ from a  _ game _ you played!” 

“Kia.” 

Kia rounds on Waver, tucked into the back of the frame. Whatever they are about to say dies on their lips compresses into a terse “yes?” 

Jack can barely see the smile creep across Waver’s lips through the distortion. 

“it suits you.” 

“ _ What. _ ” 

“‘Kia,’” Waver pushes into the screen, knocking Kia aside until they’re forced into the corrupted part of the frame with Flat, “Is a concept from chaos magic. There are many different interpretations, but you can think of it a bit like a collective unconscious. If enough belief or desire builds up in the Kia, it has a magical effect, making that belief or desire a reality.” His voice is firm and measured, with a confidence behind it that Jack is not accustomed to, and for a moment it is easy to picture him standing at the front of a lecture hall. “Of course, depending on who you ask, you’ll get a hundred different answers about what it is, or  _ how _ the Kia is involved with so-called ‘magic,’ but if you think of it as the will of the universe…” Waver raises his eyebrows and waits. 

“Wow! That’s just like you, Kia!” Flat cheers, drowning out Kia’s begrudging reply. “See? It’s a great name!” 

Kia remains unhappy with the response. Their voice is dripping with disdain as they reply. “You humans are all the same, giving names to things you don’t even understand.”

“Perhaps.” Waver shrugs, “Even the man that gave this concept its name has made clear that is not enough to understand its everything by naming it. I don’t believe that Mesala even bothered too hard to give you a name either, aside from creating that shoddy cover up of yours. The fact that it even gained sentience is a surprise to me.” 

Jack stays silent, and Flat seems to do so as well. It’s Kia, who’s just barely outside the corrupted edge of the video feed, that speaks up again.

“You’re not wrong,” they say, their tone cool and dispassionate; machine-like. “But no matter what justifications you spin, the fact remains that he tried to name me after a car.” 

“A car named after the collective unconscious,” Flat chimes in. 

The conversation is getting away from them. The cogs in Jack’s brain are catching on one-another from exhaustion, and every word longer than two syllables has slipped through the cracks in their comprehension. They struggle against a yawn that strains their jaw to cut in before the Foundation-side leaves them behind completely. 

“9664’s difficult to say.” they are sure that their voice is distorted by the connection and their exhaustion, but what they can see of Kia snaps to attention. “Can I keep calling you Kia? At least until you and Flat come up with something else?”

The silence of a cut connection separates out the seconds Kia considers their response. “Fine. Just until then.” 

Even through the exhaustion in their body, Jack manages a smile. Though things are nowhere close to ideal or even slightly close to when it was just them and Flat travelling through the country, they no longer feel that constant worry over their Flat’s wellbeing.

Waver was there. 

And now Kia, too. 

It’s a comforting thought, even when they’re separated by hundreds of kilometers and a corrupted video feed. 

As long as they can continue to hear Flat’s laugh...then...that’s…

…

“Ah.” Flat and Kia both watch with mild surprise as Jack’s body slumps forward, the shift in pixels as the only proof of their shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

Waver shakes their head, reaching forward to end the video call. “I told you that doing this sort of thing puts a strain on their body,” his tired gaze settles on Kia, who in turn glares at Flat. “and yet you decided to spend half of it arguing over your name, Kia.”

Kia whips their head back towards Waver, their dark eyes menacing. “Don’t call me that, human.” 

“Oh, come on!” Flat whines, clinging onto Kia’s shoulders despite his lack of solid form. “Now you don’t like the name? You were literally so excited about it too!” 

“I was  _ not! _ ” 

“And even Jack was happy to see that you had gotten a name. You see? You can finally have something that isn’t just a bunch of numbers!”

“Can the two of you  _ shut up for a damn second?!” _ It’s Waver’s voice that cuts between their argument, as he stands to the side with a hand massaging his temple. The call with Jack had been interesting, to say the least, but now the last thing he wants is to hear the bickering between Flat and… Kia. 

The both of them stop, staring at him with owlish eyes that are so similar and yet worlds apart from one another. After a second, Kia turns around and, in the blink of an eye, disappears from the room, leaving him with a more solid Flat Escardos, who looks around confused. 

“I guess Kia gave me the body.” They shrug, accepting it with an ease that Waver still cannot understand, even to this day. “They must be tired.” Waver’s about to tell him how ridiculous that idea is, but he’s given no chance. “But this is the perfect time to go and play some of those video games you bought me, right Dr. Velvet?” 

Waver can already feel a headache coming on. He’ll need coffee. If only Gray were around. “Do whatever you want, as long as it’s in your room and  _ only _ in your room.” He pauses. Thinks. “And stay still--” He reaches forward, pressing the back of his hand against Flat’s forehead--he’s running warm. In the back of his head, he makes a mental note to monitor Flat’s temperature while he pilots the body. “--alright, you’re free to go.”

Flat raises his hand in an energetic salute. “Thank you, Super TARDIS Pilot Doctor Velvet!”

At the nickname, Waver feels the last of his patience finally blowing a fuse. Scowling, he whips his head to face Flat, a good, loud reprimand right at the tip of his tongue--

\--but what he sees is the empty air. Flat Escardos has already returned to his containment cell.  _ Stupid brat, _ he thinks, closing the laptop and picking it up. 

\--

“Aww! Isn’t that so sweet? So precious? So  _ pure _ ? It makes me want to puke!” 

Francesca’s laughter pings around Mesala’s skull like a bullet and they ask themself, not for the first time, what has gone so wrong as to necessitate this. Blaming Watcher is easy, but the more probable culprit has just closed his connection to the Foundation’s ostensibly private network. 

Most of their eavesdropping sessions to date have been minimally informative. With the way Sigma, the gloomy boy in black, speaks, it seems that they have some other method of communication that they cannot access. 

Today is different, but not so different that it makes the present company bearable. 

“So their goal is to have that  _ thing _ replace someone in the higher ranks to get to me. It is already somewhere among us. Given its abilities, it will take some time to ferret it out.” 

“Aww. Should you really be talking that way about your kid’s partner?” 

Mesala does not have the opportunity to bite down their retort before Francois jumps in. “C’mon, Francesca! You know how it is with in-laws. Mesala can’t give Jack the shotgun talk, so they’re all frustrated!” 

“Oh, you’re right! Holding in all that aggression isn’t good for you, you know?”

“Maybe we can help!” 

As much as Mesala would love to take their aggression out on the insufferable pair haunting their office, they cannot afford to take them up on the offer. They’d never once considered their plan perfect, but there were more confounding variables than they’d anticipated. Hence the Prelatis. They balance their chin on their hand and consider their paths to a satisfactory end to this conversation. “How are the preparations?” 

The atmosphere around them shifts, but only barely. Francois’s smile is full of teeth that are just a little too uniform for comfort- like someone’s drawn them in with a grid. “Everything’s going wonderfully! Perfect! Even spectacular!” 

“We should be ready to launch tomorrow!” Francesca cheers. “We’ve been saving this piece for a few centuries. I’m so excited to see how it turns out!” 

“Maybe we can even take them out of the picture!” 

“Oh, I can just picture the shock on that goldie’s face!” 

Their volume grows as they feed off each other. Mesala hunches in as if it will help the noise. It does not. They clear their throat in a second attempt. “So long as you can keep them busy, I don’t care. If you can eliminate them, that’s just a bonus.” 

“We know!” the Prelatis cheer. Their voices spun together sound more like reverb than two people. 

What an annoying, troublesome pair.

Any analysis of them would be a moot point--Mesala has figured this out by now. The two of them are a brand of madness that goes far beyond what Mesala is used to. Mutual understanding is impossible and even their ‘alliance’ is a reflection of that. The only reason they even managed to get the Prelati’s help in the first place was because it piqued their interest, so they have no doubt that the two of them will most likely leave as soon as the spectacle is over. 

Maybe they’ll even turn on them.

Mesala has been hiding their business card in the back of a dark drawer for well over a decade, hoping they would never have to use it. Unfortunately, the Prelatis are good at what they do. Worse than that, they are the only ones that can do what they do.

A set of slim arms wind around Mesala’s shoulders, and they can feel the cut of Francesca’s clavicle putting pressure on the base of their skull. 

“If that reality bender comes out, can we play with him a little?” 

Images of their associates’ splattered remains cross Mesala’s mind for a moment. Before they are swept away by the vision, they tuck it away for further reflection. “If you can do something about that anchor, I don’t mind. Just don’t destroy it.” 

“Destroy?” Francois sounds positively offended. Francesca, mercifully, abandons their shoulders to comfort her… Twin? Brother? Clone? 

“We wouldn’t possibly! How could you, Messy? I’m offended!” 

“ _ We’re _ offended!” Francois crosses his arms in a protective huff and turns on his heel. “We’re connoisseurs of chaos! There’s no way we’d intentionally take such a valuable piece off the board if we can help it!” 

“Yeah, not unless we mess up!” 

“And we don’t mess up!” 

But “messing up” for those two is far different than what it would mean for Mesala. It is part of their calculations, of course, as they have left enough margin of error just in case those two decided to go rogue. Mesala’s plan is flexible, closer to a game of poker rather than a chess match. And even that does not come near to the amount of variables that are present here. So many moving parts, each one of them with its own risks and concerns; countless scenarios where it could all go wrong. 

It’s enough to frustrate most of the Delta Command and practically incomprehensible for any of the lower-ranked Agents. But for Mesala, this is just like their own little game with all of humanity itself. 

_ Who will bend first? You? Or will it be me? _

Certainly, the Prelatis are a breed of chaos that is beyond  _ their  _ comprehension. But that does not mean that Mesala themself does not enjoy the taste of chaos. If that had been the case, then they would have never been able to pin  _ it _ down the way they did. 

“That anchor was a smart one, though,” Mesala mumbles, staring at the computer screen with eyes that are wide with curiosity. “To think that he’d connect the dots between  _ it _ and the  _ Kia… _ those are not things that are known intuitively. He must have had that suspicion since a while ago.”

“Oh?” Francesca walks over to their desk, sitting on top of it with one leg crossed over the other in a mockery of modesty. “So you’re a magician now? Can you pull a rabbit’s entrails out of a hat?” 

Mesala glances at her, shrugging. “It’d be much cleaner to pull the whole rabbit out. Remove its entrails after and use them for soup.” 

“So you pulled out that cute and grumpy reality bender from a hat, but when are you going to rip its entrails out?” 

“There shouldn’t be any entrails to pull. Like the Kia,  _ it _ is simply a representation of the universe’s will. I’ve given it a body, but it is no more than a hollow shell.” 

Francesca picks a piece of lint from the lace framing her thighs and smiles, not just with her mouth, but with the grotesque assortment of teeth pressing up against her bustier. She presses the thin palm of her hand over the ridges in the fabric. “You know, the thing about hollow things is that they’re just  _ begging _ to be filled. After all this time, with so many people, what makes you think that Kia’s still empty?” 

“It’s existed for millenia without change. I can’t imagine a few mortals would be enough to change it.” 

“Messy, Messy, Messy.” Francois shakes his head from the door, “You think big, and we like that! But if you keep your head in the clouds you’re gonna miss out!” 

Francesca slides off their desk in a shower of satin and tulle. She skips to Francois’s side, and tucks her arms around his. “You think we’d bother sticking around if ‘mortals’ weren’t so much fun?” 

“You should think about that, Messy! Maybe you’ll be less grumpy all the time if you take some time to smell the flowers!”

“You have a job to do,” Mesala reminds them. Their knuckles are white where they are clutched against their desk. They need to review the recording. Take note of any abnormalities in its behavior. They do not have time for this. “If you need anyone to pester, Faldeus will be quite busy writing reports.”

As long as they leave and their purpose is fulfilled, Mesala no longer cares what they do. They’ve heard and seen enough of their irritating presences. 

Whether it is mercy for Mesala or cruelty for Faldeus, their words have the desired effect. Francois hoots in delight, and Francesca rips the door open with such enthusiasm that the knob stabs a dent in the wall. 

“Good luck, Messy!” 

“Don’t forget to take a break! All work and no play makes the apocalypse just another day!” 

The door slams shut and the Prelatis are gone, leaving Mesala in blissful, peaceful silence. They stare at the door for what feels like forever, before a single thought pushes through all the others. Their eyes glance around the room, observing closely. Aside from whatever Francesca pushed when she sat on the desk, everything was in its rightful place. So--

“What did she mean by messy?”

**Author's Note:**

> WE'RE BACK.


End file.
